The Night Dances
by kitsunelover
Summary: Hermione has to go to Azkaban to study several inmates as part of her Auror training. Lucius is one of them. LMHG in a way. COMPLETE
1. Malfoy, Bloody Malfoy

__

The Night Dances

Disclaimer: The plot is mine, but the characters are JKR's.

A/N: 

Spoilers: There are about two minor things mentioned that you have to have read OotP to understand, but that's it, really.

Rating: R for language, dark stuff, and mild sexual references. Mostly for the language and dark stuff.

Pairings: It's LM/HG – in a way. I think it'd be a bit of a stretch classifying this as romance, and it's not a story of obsession either (though it may seem like that in the beginning). I'd say it's more a story of fascination. ^_^ There's also implied Lucius/Narcissa, Lucius/Bella, and Lucius/half the young people in England. He sure gets around.

I. Malfoy, Bloody Malfoy

"Some assignment, eh?"

Hermione broke out of her reveries and turned away from the ocean.

"Yeah," she answered, looking at the desolate island she and a group of other Aurors-in-training had just Apparated to, with their instructor, Mad-Eye Moody. Mad-Eye had agreed to train this year's most promising young Aurors as a favor to the new Minister, Minerva McGonagall, though he swore that if he got locked in his trunk again, he'd never get within twenty feet of any Hogwarts' personnel for the rest of his life.

Hermione and the others had been in training for a year. Everyone else was older than she was, because even though she'd just graduated, Moody had deemed her intelligent enough to keep up with an advanced group. 

In their seventh year, Ron, Harry, and Hermione had fought fiercely in the war. Like everyone always thought, it was Harry who brought about Lord Voldemort's final downfall. That wasn't until Dumbledore had died, however, and Harry couldn't forgive himself for that. So McGonagall had become Minister, while Snape had become Headmaster. He rivaled Phineas Nigellus for the position of most unpopular headmaster. It was said that they got on quite well.

After the war, Harry had claimed that he'd had enough of fighting, so instead of becoming an Auror, he became a famous international Quidditch player. Ron chose to forgo the arduous training of an Auror as well (and besides, his grades weren't quite good enough), and he joined the Magical Law Enforcement department, where he quickly advanced to the office of Jr. Undersecretary of the head of the department.

Hermione was proud of her friends, but she vowed to herself that she would become just as successful as they, if not more. She was still the only one who had not prospered yet, the training being long and difficult.

Recently, Moody had told them that to become good Aurors, they had to understand the criminal psyche. Which brought them all to Azkaban.

The disastrous fiasco of Fudge's reign had taught many people a lesson. So now the dreaded wizard prison was put in charge of a few select Aurors who had a multitude of members from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol at their command. A handful of heavily Imperius'd dementors stood at strategic locations on the edges of the island, and were occasionally brought in to administer kisses. However, their presence there was mainly to prevent anyone who broke out of the building from getting to the ocean - if it were even possible to leave the building. The guide who had led them on a crude tour of the place had proudly grunted that "the new Azkaban" was warded with every protective spell known to wizard-kind and was safer than even Hogwarts or Gringotts. Moody had snorted his disbelief at his words, but kept quiet. 

Just then, Moody stumped out of the front doors. "Come in, everyone," he ordered, his blue eye rolling over and around frantically and looking decidedly creepy. Apparently the new improvements on the prison didn't reassure him of its safety.

His apprentices hurried over, eager to get away from the dementors. The island, though inhabited by less than half of what had been there before, was still cold and depressing.

"It's important for you all to know how the criminal mind works. I want you to pick at least three of these highly dangerous convicts," he gestured to a list, "and spend the next six months interviewing them. Know their motives! Know their fears! Know their strengths! I want you to be so familiar with the evildoer's mind that you can categorize any lawbreaking bastard you meet into one of fifty major categories! Remember that I'm expecting a comprehensive report at the end of these six months! "

"Hah," smirked a blond man behind Hermione. "Yeah right. Fifty categories?"

To Hermione's right, a Ravenclaw she'd known vaguely at school muttered, "Constant vigilance!"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" roared Moody a second after Emma had.

Hermione bit back a smile.

"Now, take a look at this list and select who you're interviewing today. Keep your wands at the ready when you enter the cells. These are top-security prisoners!"

Everyone bustled forward to examine the list. Hermione recognized several names while scanning down the list. Once she reached the M's, she saw _Malfoy, Lucius. _The prominent Death Eater had narrowly avoided getting kissed, and many suspected he had used whatever influence he had left (not to mention the vast amount of money he still possessed) to evade that sentence.

On a whim, Hermione signed her name next to his to indicate she was interrogating him that day.

"Lucius Malfoy?" Emma, her closest friend in training, peered at her curiously. "Hermione, are you sure you want to -? He's such a biased git – he might give you some trouble." She left Hermione's parentage unmentioned.

"I think I can handle him, thanks." Hermione smiled.

"Okay . . . I'm taking this guy, then." Emma signed off on someone named Chester.

Hermione consulted her map of the prison. They had been distributed among the group earlier. Malfoy was in cell 289 . . . 

After a few minutes, she finally found him. It had been an extremely unnerving walk, even though a guard had accompanied her. Black-clothed prisoners had stared eerily at her, and some had jeered or made grotesque faces through their windows or bars.

The burly guard pointed his wand at Malfoy's door, and it opened. Hermione followed him into the room.

"Malfoy!"

Lucius, who had been sitting on his bed, looked up in surprise.

"Miss Granger here is going to cross examine you for an assignment that's part of her Auror training. She's got her wand, and I'll be just outside the door, so don't try anything. Cooperate with Miss Granger and everyone'll be happy. Got that?"

Lucius looked at him coolly. "Perfectly."

"Good." The guard turned to Hermione. "If you're in trouble, fire red sparks out of your wand. This cell is spelled to prevent him from doing any magic, but you'll be able to. There's a detector charm on all cells to alert us when red sparks are being fired." Then he uttered a spell and pointed his wand to the middle of the room, where a table and two chairs appeared.

"Thank you," said Hermione.

"No problem." The guard went outside and closed the door.

A minute of silence passed in which the two inside observed each other cautiously. Life in a bleak, nearly windowless cell did nothing to improve Lucius's appearance, Hermione noted, but he didn't look as bad as she would have expected.

Malfoy was clean, not the pristine, enviable way he used to be, but the terrible, sterilized sort of clean found in hospitals. Unlike Sirius when he had just escaped, Malfoy's hair was well groomed – Hermione suspected he bribed the guards for toiletries. He wore the ubiquitous black prisoner's robes as if they were latest fashion from Paris. Inexplicably, Hermione felt glad, in a detached way, that he did not have to suffer the monstrosity of neon orange suits like Muggle convicts did. 

Whatever Azkaban had done to Lucius Malfoy, first and foremost he had not lost his dignity.

He watched her with an expressionless face. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Miss Granger?"

He sat down casually. 

"You heard the guard," she replied uncomfortably. Though she knew she was in charge, she couldn't help feeling defenseless against his unrelenting gaze.

Lucius laughed. "Sit, dear girl."

A voice in her head screamed at her not to lose control, to keep her cool. Wishing that voice would shut up, she stiffly sat across from him.

"I was wondering why you selected me. Surely you had a choice." His smirk was so irritating.

"I just wanted to see how well you liked Azkaban, you pretentious bastard," Hermione snarled, her hatred suddenly bubbling up to the surface. "How does it compare to your Wiltshire mansion, sir?"

He raised an eyebrow. "No need to be rude, Miss Granger."

His contemptuous bearing was still present. Frankly, Hermione was surprised he hadn't called her a Mudblood yet.

When he said nothing further, she pulled a roll of parchment and a Quick-Quotes Quill out of her bag. The quill was, unlike Rita Skeeter's, a deep red color. Balancing the point on the parchment, Hermione bit her lip in embarrassment at having already shown weakness to Malfoy, and said in a voice of forced calm, "May I start questioning you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"By all means," he responded, smirking even more widely.

The scarlet quill scribbled _Lucius Malfoy, 44, Prisoner of cell 289:Interview 1 _as the heading.

"So you were captured and incarcerated twice." This was a statement, not a question, and as such, Malfoy merely nodded haughtily.

"Describe both instances."

"The first time as well? Oh, but of course . . . you were unconscious by the time that happened." Lucius paused a second to let his words sting.

"Ah, well . . . I was attempting to retrieve the prophecy from Potter when I was hit with _Impedimenta_ –"

"Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy, could you specify whose hex it was?" Hermione's voice was dangerously sweet, and he knew it was revenge for his jibe about her being knocked out.

"Potter's." He kept his voice neutral, but Hermione saw from the look in his eyes that he would not forget this.

"I see. Continue."

"I flew into the dais where Black and Bellatrix were dueling. I ignored them and aimed my wand at Potter again, when the werewolf," his voice dripped disdain as he spoke about Lupin, "jumped in front of them and blocked my spell. It ricocheted back and I barely dodged it. Though I did not feel the full force of it, it weakened me further, and then that Muggle-loving imbecile restrained several others and me with an Anti-Disapparation Jinx. I was then questioned and brought here." Malfoy's tone had remained emotionless throughout his entire narrative.

Hermione wanted to get a reaction out of him. The more time she spent with him, the more she hated him for worming his way out of his deserved punishment, for being an elitist supremacist, for making Harry's life so hard, for everything.

"Tell me what you were feeling then."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Angry, I suppose. Frustrated. How about . . . murderous? That ought to spice up your report." He leered at Hermione, nodding at the quill speeding over the parchment.

"How did you escape?"

"Several of my colleagues came, concealed under various spells. They were far more powerful than the wizards whom had replaced the dementors, so they were able to come to my cell with little difficulty. It took them an hour or so to break through the wards, and then they concealed me as well, and we Apparated to a wood where our lord was waiting."

Hermione knew this story already. The Ministry had been furious that someone as important as Malfoy had escaped so easily. Fudge had been under a lot of pressure.

"How lovely," she murmured. 

"I was still livid with them for waiting a month before coming to break me out." Lucius grinned reminiscently. "I punished them later when we were dismissed by our lord."

"Why didn't you break out yourself? Surely the great Lucius Malfoy would have been capable of such a feat," Hermione sneered

He made an elegant gesture with his hand that seemed to say, "Oh well, you know . . .." 

"When you haven't got your wand and you're locked in a cell that has enough protective spells on it to subdue a dragon, you don't have much of a choice, Miss Granger."

"Very well then." Hermione was fighting to keep herself composed, but she had underestimated Malfoy. Every gesture or word from him served to enflame her. He was quite the calculating bastard. And she hated that he was able to do this to her. 

"So tell me about the second time you were caught," she said.

He cocked his head to the side. "Do you know, I don't feel like it." His voice was petulant, but his expression was devilish.

Clenching her teeth, Hermione steadfastly controlled her features and tone. "Fine. Are you aware of your family's current whereabouts?"

"I know my wife has fled and my son is dead, yes," he replied tranquilly.

"What was your reaction to Draco's death?" Hermione inquired, wondering if he would evince sorrow. He didn't.

"I thought it would have happened sooner or later. It always does," he smirked. "But if you are referring to the fact that he died so early in life, I can't say I'm much sorrier than you are. He was a rather disappointing child."

His bearing gave the impression that Lucius would have spat at perfection. Of course, Draco had been less than perfect.

"Do you know where Narcissa has gone?" she asked.

No doubt he was aware of her efforts to provoke him. He kept his _sangfroid_ and drawled, "Probably France or some other European nation where she can comfortably remain hidden."

"How do you feel about that, Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione suspected that this was a vulnerable topic for Lucius, so her own anger was evaporating.

"What are you? Some god - damn psychologist?" His voice was not yet agitated (his tones were clipped and precise with suppressed anger, hence the slight pause between "god" and "damn"), but his gray eyes flashed. Hermione unconsciously leaned back as he inclined towards her.

"Answer the question. Please," she added automatically.

The menace disappeared from his eyes (but Hermione felt that he had only masked it), and he straightened.

"I suppose you are expecting me to say that I feel hurt. Betrayed. Furious. Despondent." Lucius closed his eyes briefly.

"But I am not. Why should I be anything but pleased if my wife is safely out of the country?" he challenged, gray eyes boring into hers again.

Startled by his unexpected reaction, Hermione's hand crept into her pocket and closed around her wand almost before she knew it. To continue in this line of questioning was dangerous, she realized, but she had an unexplainable urge to go on.

"Did you love her?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Almost immediately, her conjecture was proved correct. He rose abruptly.

"Did I love her?" he echoed in a voice no louder than hers. "Yes. Yes, I loved her. I loved her hands, her lips, her voice, and her eyes. I loved how she put her golden hair on my chest and listened to my heart beat." 

His voice rose uncontrollably. "I loved her in way that you, dirty, low Mudblood, can never understand!"

She too rose, and backed away in terror, her wand whipped out from its place and raised in front of her.

"I would have slit these wrists if it ensured her happiness! Look, and tremble!" Lucius savagely pulled up his sleeves to bare two horribly pale wrists, and a fiery light was in his face. A knife was pulled from his robes, and Hermione didn't know how he had a knife – he shouldn't have a knife! – oh, and he was slashing at his wrists, and bright, bright blood was flying everywhere – 

Hermione screamed and sent red sparks from her wand tip.

The guard outside burst in, and instantaneously hit Lucius with a Stunning Spell.

"What happened, Miss Granger?" He was staring at the prone form on the ground, which was bleeding and still clutching a knife.

"He – he grew hysterical when I asked him something," Hermione stammered, pressing her hand against her palpitating heart. "He screamed, and then he pulled out that knife – he began cutting his wrists – I don't know – I –"

"Okay. Calm down, Miss." The guard muttered something and sent a silvery cloud from his wand, which sped out the door and down the corridor. He placed a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "Do you want me to escort you out?" 

"No . . . no," she breathed, attempting to collect herself. "I'm all right, thanks."

"Okay," he said again. "Are you sure you're unharmed?"

"Yes, I just want to leave," she said insistently. Not wanting to exchange further words with the tedious guard, she gathered her things, quickly left the guard and Malfoy, and walked to the front room. On the way, she saw some Patrol members hurrying down the hall in the opposite direction, evidently to tend to Lucius.

Moody was standing in the room, holding a book, but he was not even pretending to read it, as he kept shooting suspicious glances everywhere. The man in charge behind the desk looked quite annoyed.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" he growled.

"My – my subject had a knife. He lost control when I asked him a question and began cutting himself," Hermione explained despairingly again.

"You had Malfoy, eh?" Moody was inspecting the list. "No wonder. Damn prison! How'd a top security prisoner like that get hold of a knife?" He glared accusingly at the thin man behind the desk. "Go on home and get some rest. When you've pulled yourself together, look over your notes and maybe start your report. Hell of a thing to happen on the first day."

"Yes, sir" she agreed breathlessly. "Er – goodbye then, Mad-Eye."

He gave her a little wave as she left.

Once she had Apparated back to her flat in London, she collapsed on the sofa to get her thoughts in order, for they were flying about her mind like flies over carrion.

Finally, the thoughts exhausted themselves and settled down, and she went to brew herself a pot of tea.

Perhaps she should tell Mad-Eye that she'd made a bad choice and ask him if she could drop him to study someone else instead. Would that look like weakness? She could hear his displeased muttering in her head. _"Only one session and she's backing out . . . damn young people these days . . . not good for anything . ..."_

Then there was Lucius. Cunning bastard that he was, he'd probably deduce that she had gotten too frightened of him to carry on, and that she wasn't finished. This thought disturbed Hermione more than anything Mad-Eye would say. It had somehow become a personal war between her and Malfoy, and Hermione would not admit defeat. The vaunted Gryffindor courage was kicking into her system.

The kettle steaming on the counter whistled to draw her attention, so she poured the boiling water into a teapot painted with swallows that flew amidst willow branches. 

As she drank the tea, Malfoy's demoniac expression when he cut himself flashed into her mind, and before her eyes swam a fresh, glistening red, like his blood. Hermione put her teacup down unsteadily.

She suddenly had a vehement desire for strong alcohol.

She wanted to get as drunk as it was humanly possible. 

She hated Lucius Malfoy.

A/N: The title comes from a Sylvia Plath poem (she is a brilliant poet). The idea is that Hermione and Lucius are dancing around each other in the dark, verbal swords raised. And they're both feeling their way around in the dark tentatively – especially Hermione. And if you don't understand what I'm talking about, then yes, I know I suck at metaphors.

I won't beg for reviews. I won't.

I'll buy them! 

Any takers? ^_^


	2. Toujours Pur

II. _Toujours Pur_   
  
  
The next morning, Hermione still didn't feel up to facing Lucius again – he was a madman among madmen – so she headed to the Ministry to review her notes. She could have stayed at home to do that, but going to the Ministry let people see that she was doing something.   
  
Mad-Eye had devised a schedule for them, which went like this: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were spent doing physical, magical, and mental training with Moody, which left the weekend and Monday free. Ideally, the Aurors-in-training would spend some of their free days at Azkaban interviewing their chosen prisoners.   
  
It was now Sunday. So when Mad-Eye saw Hermione walking to her cubicle, he called out to her.   
  
"Granger!"   
  
She turned slowly. "Yes, sir?"   
  
"What are you doing at the Ministry? Shouldn't you be interrogating Malfoy?"   
  
"I was thinking that I should devote today to examining my notes thoroughly, and I could visit him tomorrow. He's got a very convoluted mind, sir," she explained glibly. It wasn't exactly a lie, for which Hermione was glad, because she couldn't lie to save her life – especially not to someone like Moody.   
  
"Ah." Mad-Eye regarded her for a while. "Not a bad plan. Good thinking, Granger."   
  
"Yes, sir." Hermione nodded to him respectfully, and he walked away.   
  
The cramped, but neat cubicle Hermione sat in was shared with Emma, but she was apparently at Azkaban today. Hermione was thankful; she didn't want to discuss Malfoy with any more people.   
  
On the roll of parchment she'd taken to Azkaban was a good foot or so of small, meticulous handwriting that strongly resembled her own. Another parchment was taken out of a drawer and deposited to the first one, and Hermione also took out a quill and a bottle of blue ink.   
  
Loading her quill with the blue ink, she began to read what the Quick-Quotes Quill had written.   
  
The way he had treated her in the beginning puzzled her as much as it had back in the cell. Knitting her brow, she scribbled, "_Initially behaved in a civil manner_."   
  
Further notes included such observations as:   
_"Kept remarkably cool and composed until end."_   
  
_"Did not use term 'Mudblood' until thoroughly enraged."_   
  
_"Answered every question, if not cooperatively, except for request that he describe second capture."_   
  
_"Why did he love his wife but not his son?"_   
  
_"What sort of relationship did he really have with Narcissa?"_   
  
On and on it went. When Hermione finally stopped an hour later, she was left with no clearer a picture than when she had started. He did not appear wholly mad, as she had first thought, but he was a little unstable. The Order had already suspected as much, but it seemed that the instability had been better concealed – or controlled, as it were – when he had not yet been imprisoned.   
  
What unnerved her the most, Hermione decided, was his composure. She could not understand how someone as proud as Malfoy could stand the humiliation of Azkaban and the defamation of his family name as calmly as he had seemed to.   
  
Suppressing a shudder, Hermione took all her things and left the Ministry. She would take a break for today – maybe go shopping or something. Too much Malfoy could be dangerous for one's health.   
  
***   
  
At 3:00 in the afternoon the next day, Hermione Apparated to Azkaban again. The break she had taken yesterday had done wonders for her state of mind.   
  
In the front room, Hermione showed the thin man a badge issued to all in her group that granted them access to the prisoners at all times. He nodded curtly at her, and pressed a button on the wall.   
  
A guard entered from a side room. Hermione recognized him as the one from yesterday. They began walking down the corridor.   
  
"How is Malfoy?" she asked.   
  
The guard grunted. "He's fine. We've got several Patrol members well trained in Healing, so his cuts were healed in a minute. Damned if I know where he got that knife from, though."   
  
"So you don't know?" Hermione repeated incredulously.   
  
"We're investigating it," he demurred. "Don't worry, it won't happen again, Miss."   
  
"Oh." That was all Hermione could think of to say. Personally, she agreed with Mad-Eye Moody: Azkaban still didn't seem like an extremely secure prison.   
  
It was sunny that day, so the gloomy air was dispelled – somewhat.   
  
When Hermione entered Lucius's cell, he was again sitting on the bed.   
  
"You're not to do anything dangerous or threatening like that again, Malfoy," the guard warned him. "Or we'll throw you to the dementors."   
  
Lucius simply stared contemptuously at the man as if he were not important enough to require that Lucius deign to respond.   
  
The guard made an irritated noise, conjured a table and two chairs again, and went out. Hermione was glad.   
  
Once he was gone, Lucius moved to sit down. His movements had a fluid grace in them that Hermione marveled at involuntarily.   
  
She sat down as well.   
  
"Allow me to apologize for my behavior yesterday, Miss Granger," said Lucius, sounding as if he were proclaiming that gold had been found in South America.   
  
His voice was so arrogant and his attitude obviously non-repentant that Hermione only nodded in response. In essence, she acknowledged but did not accept the apology. If it could be called that.   
  
Like before, she placed the Quick-Quotes Quill poised over a roll of parchment. That done, she began.   
  
"I asked you yesterday, Mr. Malfoy, how you liked Azkaban, but you never answered," she stated evenly.   
  
"Was that really a genuine question? I thought it was a bit of rhetoric sarcasm," he drawled.   
  
"It's a serious question," she confirmed, watching him closely.   
  
"What's not to like?" he asked sarcastically. "I've got a fantastically Spartan bed," he motioned to the austere bed in question, "a lovely little window in the door where anyone can watch me defecate in the corner," he glared with loathing at the dirty toilet in the back, "and if I'm lucky, sometimes the guards feel generous and give me their newspapers to alleviate the boredom.   
  
"Of course," he added, "recently, further amusement has come in the form of a pretty little Mudblood who asks me prying, personal questions."   
  
"It's my pleasure," she muttered.   
  
Lucius smiled crookedly, but his eyes remained cold.   
  
"Tell me how you feel about your surroundings," she continued.   
  
"Feelings again? I never would have guessed that you could care so much."   
  
Hermione shrugged. The morbid little episode of the past day had restrained her temper considerably.   
  
"I'm writing a thorough report on you, Mr. Malfoy. I need the information. I'm writing about two other people as well," she added.   
  
"I see. I'm flattered. Well then, I suppose I'll supply you with several useful adjectives. They're disgusting. I loathe them. It's exceedingly degrading."   
  
"So," Hermione prodded, "you feel that you are above these surroundings. Do you think they are appropriate for Muggle-borns?" She wanted to explore his feelings of pureblood supremacy.   
  
He was supremely disdainful. "Obviously."   
  
"Why are purebloods so superior to Muggle-borns and half-bloods?"   
  
"For one thing, you can always be sure of a person's worth if they come from centuries of selective breeding," he declared, his face turning into an ugly mask of hatred and contempt.   
  
"Wouldn't you say the term 'inbreeding' is more accurate, sir?" Hermione attempted to correct him.   
  
Lucius was dismissive. "Accuracy is not important. Those who are not pureblood come from long lines of haphazard rutting. Illegitimate children, whorish mothers, and lecherous fathers ensure that there are no half-bloods alive who have no disgraceful blood in them. As for Mudbloods," his lip curled in contempt, "they are far worse. They hover between the Muggle and Wizarding societies, belonging to none. They can never understand true wizards, and yet they are not satisfied with the stink of their Muggle origins. A Mudblood is an aberration. An anomaly." He kept his mocking gray eyes trained on her throughout his offensive speech.   
  
"Surely it does not matter what someone is born as?" persisted Hermione, staring determinedly back at him and fighting down the urge to slap him. She was not thirteen anymore. "Wouldn't you agree that what someone grows up to be is more important than their parentage?"   
  
"That is the logic typical of the fool Dumbledore, yes, I recognize it. And do you know, it would make sense, except for the fact that purebloods always grow up to become adults superior to Mudbloods and half-bloods." Lucius smirked, confident in his reasoning.   
  
Hermione thought from his second sentence that she might have a chance at forcing him to see sense.   
  
"Tell me honestly," Hermione demanded, "who made a better adult, Vincent Crabbe or me?"   
  
"You consider yourself an adult?" Lucius retorted.   
  
"Then who would have made a better adult?" she insisted.   
  
Lucius scowled. "Crabbe. If only by virtue of his pure bloodlines."   
  
"Okay. What if we were both purebloods?" Hermione asked, feeling that she was winning this round. His scowl did not escape her, and it puzzled her, for no doubt Lucius was an accomplished liar and could easily have fooled her into thinking that he truly thought much more of Crabbe, idiot though he was, than of her.   
  
"I could never pretend that you were pureblooded," he answered insolently.   
  
"Can you pretend that Crabbe and I were both Muggle-born then?"   
  
"Perhaps," he allowed grudgingly.   
  
"Then who would be better?"   
  
"You, Miss Granger."   
  
"You place too much importance on the purity of blood!" Hermione cried, her point having been made. "If you didn't know that I was Muggle-born, you probably would have thought more highly of me than Draco!"   
  
"How do you know I didn't already think that?" he murmured swiftly.   
  
That threw her. She stared at him. "What?" she demanded.   
  
"Purity of blood is everything, Miss Granger," he said smoothly. "I can tell what type of blood someone has. Always. I can smell it." Something dark and sinister loomed in his eyes.   
  
"You said something before that," Hermione said. "I'm asking you what you said."   
  
Lucius looked at her with amusement and lazily slid his slender fingers under her chin. He tilted her head up and whispered, "You are not in a position to ask me anything, dear girl."   
  
That hideous endearment again. Hermione opened her mouth to protest but abruptly closed it. She had fooled herself by thinking that she was in charge, but Lucius was a devious Slytherin, and too formidable an opponent for her. She had relinquished control the moment she'd stepped into his cell.   
  
Lucius laughed and withdrew his hand. "Dirty blood smells like decay and corruption. It stinks of the filth and the abhorrent fornication from whence it comes. It is a subtle, insidious stench that no perfume or magic can ever conceal. Never." He smiled. Then he wiped his hand fastidiously on his robes.   
  
"They took my gloves," he explained in a childishly mournful tone, though his expression was derisive.   
  
Hermione was resolved to continue her work with Lucius, but now she could never forget that Lucius dominated their interactions.   
  
"Why did you support a half-blood in the war?" Hermione challenged feebly.   
  
"The Dark Lord . . ." mused Lucius. "He was powerful. And the heir of Salazar Slytherin. But he lost. If he had been pureblooded, it would have been different."   
  
"You groveled at his feet. You have made it clear that you think half-bloods and Muggle-borns are to be despised and exterminated. You are inconsistent, Mr. Malfoy."   
  
"It was not his fault," said Lucius, shrugging elegantly. "His mother was quite pureblooded, but the father . . ." His voice trailed off, making it clear that Tom Riddle's mother deserved a fate worse than death for marrying a Muggle. "He was so close to being a pureblood."   
  
"That is still incongruous with your other beliefs," Hermione repeated.   
  
Lucius refused to speak.   
  
Knowing when she was fighting a losing battle, Hermione reluctantly decided to drop that subject. "Did you grieve his loss?"   
  
"It was disadvantageous for me, personally, of course. But I had no sentimental attachment to him," scoffed Lucius, who pushed a strand of white-blond hair which had fallen forward back behind his shoulder.   
  
"I see." Hermione glanced over at her parchment, which was quite full with black scrawls, and the quill showed no sign of slowing.   
  
"Another Dark Lord will rise again," Lucius stated matter-of-factly. "It's only a matter of time."   
  
"That may be true," conceded Hermione cautiously. "And you think he will help you escape from Azkaban?"   
  
"He will of course have heard of me," said Lucius superciliously. "With my reputation of having been in the Dark Lord's inner circle, my substantial financial assets, and my skills, which are rather impressive, if I do say so myself – any future dark lords would be foolish to overlook me as a useful subordinate."   
  
"On a side note, why are you content with the position of subordinate instead of master?" Hermione wondered. It seemed another inconsistency in Malfoy's character.   
  
"Because authority figures are always at greater risk," Lucius elucidated.   
  
That sounded like something Moody had said before, Hermione thought.   
  
"And like the first time Voldemort fell, you can always get back into the public's good graces by saying you were forced to aid the fallen dark lord against your will," Lucius went on.   
  
"Very shrewd," Hermione commented.   
  
Lucius gave her a crocodile smile.   
  
"And what if no second Dark Lord rises during your lifetime?" she questioned.   
  
"Then I'll rot here and assist him from hell. The devil shall whisper in my ear and I will whisper in his."   
  
It was horrid how Malfoy's teeth never showed, even when he was smiling his crocodile smile. Hermione suddenly decided that no matter how intimidating he became, she would not cease trying to take control of the situation or yield. Sometimes the vaunted Gryffindor courage really was useful.   
  
Hermione was feeling the strange foreboding way she had felt before Lucius had pulled out a knife and slashed himself last time.   
  
"There will be no second Dark Lord," she asserted, more to herself (for her own comfort) than to Lucius.   
  
"You think so?" Lucius's gray eyes were sparkling with mirth; he seemed to find this extremely funny.   
  
"You are very wrong, Miss Granger." And he tilted his head back and laughed.   
  
Hermione instantly rose, knocking her chair backwards with the violence with which she moved. The rich, deep laughter reverberated throughout the room and Hermione shrieked, her wand in her hand emitting red sparks profusely.   
  
The burly guard stormed in again, and bellowed, "_Petrificus Totalus_!"   
  
Lucius's body froze up and the awful laughter stopped, but Hermione could see his eyes and they were still laughing. She hurriedly stuffed her quill and parchment back in her bag.   
  
The guard, who had bent over Lucius, stood up and looked upset. "I'm sorry, Miss, I don't know what's got into him lately. He's usually quiet."   
  
"It's okay. I'm fine," she assured the guard. "I'll just . . . be leaving now."   
  
He nodded and she strode from the room, shuddering. The laughter was just as frightening as the knife incident, and Hermione seriously wondered whether she shouldn't give up on him. In itself, the laughter was not hysterical or maniacal, but it scared her all the same. His erratic and disturbing (not to mention somewhat dramatic) manner, coupled with the fact that he was always in control, upset her very much.   
  
As Hermione nodded to the thin - receptionist, as it were – her hand went up to the tender spot under her chin where his pale fingers had rested, and she closed her eyes in horror.   
  
The horror resulted not only from his touch, but also from the realization that she was fascinated with Lucius and wanted to see him again – a horrified fascination, yes, but fascination nevertheless.   
  
Hermione wondered if Lucius had intended his actions to have this effect. He had said something to the effect of her being an interesting diversion – and she did not doubt that Azkaban was intensely dull.   
  
He was exceedingly confusing.   
  
He was dreadful.   
  
He was fascinating.   
  
She hated him.   
  
  
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I've never written Lucius/Hermione before, so all feedback is greatly appreciated.   
  
To those who mentioned that my fic is like _The Silence of the Lambs_, thank you for pointing that out. I must look like a terrible thief now; I've nicked the title from a Sylvia Plath poem, and it looks like I've stolen the plot from _Silence_. Well, I've admitted that the title isn't mine, but I have never read _Silence_ or seen the movie. I really hope that when I read it (which I will ASAP), more similarities don't crop up between my story and that one (I've written pretty much the entire story now). If it does, I'll feel like a plagiarist . . . *shudder* It would mean a lot to me if someone tells me how the second chapter compares to _Silence_.   
  



	3. Memoirs

III. _Memoirs_   
  
  
Mercifully, the next four days of the week were devoted to practicing reacting intelligently in stressful situations. As far as Hermione could tell, to Mad-Eye this meant seeing how fast you could whisk your wand out of your pocket and hex something. Anything, really. He wasn't picky.   
  
Moody was a strict instructor, so they had little time to talk, another thing Hermione was grateful for. Emma seemed quite eager to discuss Azkaban experiences; she would tell anyone who cared to listen about the many gruesome nightmares she had that were inspired by the stories the Chester convict had told her.   
  
Though Hermione was averse to discussing her notes and experiences, in private she reviewed them avidly, and Lucius captured her mind more and more. He was possibly the most enigmatic man she had ever met – save Professor Snape, and he was another unpleasant Slytherin type.   
  
After much time spent poring over the sentence in which Lucius had hinted that his disgust for Hermione disguised other feelings, she finally concluded that it was a statement intended to perplex her further. Many stark contrasts could be found in the labyrinth that was Lucius Malfoy's mind, but Hermione was certain he could never have any remotely positive feelings towards those who were not pureblooded.   
  
With what information she had garnered so far, Hermione was able to write up around three feet six inches' worth of material for her report. That was where the advantage in choosing Malfoy lay. From what she heard of others, no one else had even hit two and half feet.   
  
When she thought that, she snorted. At least there was one advantage.   
  
Saturday finally came again, and Hermione paid her third visit to Lucius. Remembering his dreadful touch on her neck, she wore navy robes with a high collar, and kept her hair down. However, she also recalled his distaste for touching her, and realized that the chances of it happening again were low. Still, she wasn't going to take chances.   
  
This time, the burly guard was waiting in the front room, and Hermione recognized several others from her group. Evidently two o'clock in the afternoon was a popular visiting time.   
  
"Here to see Mr. Malfoy?" asked the guard in a business-like manner.   
  
She nodded.   
  
"How good to see you again. I thought you had given up on me," Lucius remarked pleasantly when she entered, as if their last meeting had not ended with him in hysterics.   
  
"What, no apology this time?" Hermione raised her chin imperiously.   
  
"You and I both know my apologies are completely insincere, so why bother?" A grin spread over pale lips.   
  
"True," she acquiesced, setting up her quill and parchment again.   
  
"I know you are the one supposed to be interrogating me," he began, and his voice was quietly sneering, "but I desire to ask a question."   
  
"Yes?" Hermione raised her eyebrows.   
  
"Is this the last visit you will pay me?"   
  
"No, this assignment lasts for six months," Hermione replied with surprise.   
  
"May I call you Hermione then? If you don't like that, I can come up with other things to call you, you filthy Mudblood _bitch_." His tone, which had been conversational, suddenly turned darkly malevolent.   
  
Hermione's mouth formed an O of surprise at his abrupt viciousness, but she recovered quickly. "Fine," she said curtly. "Provided that I may address you as Lucius."   
  
"Of course," he agreed serenely, all trace of his former ferocity suddenly gone.   
  
"You know, one day I will get it through your thick, aristocratic skull that Muggle-borns are just as good as purebloods," Hermione muttered to the table.   
  
The corner's of Lucius's mouth twitched.   
  
"Such a privilege it is to be one of Hermione Granger's pet cases," he said lightly.   
  
"I thought we'd spend today with you telling me your life story," Hermione told him briskly, pretending she had not heard his last words. "I'd be your biographer of sorts," she indicated the scratching quill, "if you will."   
  
His curled lip informed her that he didn't care much for this idea. "I'm sure the Azkaban authorities would allow you access to my file. An approximate biography is included in there."   
  
"Oh yes, but I'd really like to hear it from your lips," she objected, trying to sound as kind as possible.   
  
Lucius's scowl did not lessen, and he breathed, "And if I refuse?"   
  
Hermione shrugged. "I think that the Azkaban authorities would allow me to administer Veritaserum for my research."   
  
A pause followed, during which Lucius stared hard at Hermione. Before long, she was forced to look away. He chuckled softly and began to talk.   
  
"I was born November 11, 19--, to Lysander and Alexandra Malfoy. From birth to age three, I spent my time comfortably. On my third birthday, my father hired a renowned tutor to teach me various subjects including English, mathematics, etiquette, and later, riding, flying, and rudimentary magic. This changed only when I entered Hogwarts. Father ensured that I was brought up properly, but that was the most my parents had to do with me."   
  
Hermione was having trouble visualizing Lucius as a child. His voice had a calm, hypnotic quality to it – he spoke too easily and freely, though his sneering undertones were to be expected. She guessed that he was probably lying about some things, and made a mental note to check his file.   
  
"I was Sorted into Slytherin, as you know; I befriended Crabbe, Goyle, and Mulciber, among others in my House whom I felt would be useful to me or entertaining to have around, and I consistently excelled in class. Oh, and if you care, I was given the position of Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team in my second year."   
  
"Did you earn it, or did your father buy your way in for you?" She just couldn't resist asking.   
  
Lucius gave her a thin-lipped smile. "Unlike Draco, I obtained my position with my talent."   
  
"Ah."   
  
"Right after I graduated, I followed in my father's footsteps and became a Death Eater. My first task, to prove my loyalty, was to kill my father."   
  
Hermione jerked upright. She knew of the appalling duties given to Death Eaters, but could not believe that Voldemort would give such personal orders.   
  
"Did you do it?" she demanded.   
  
Lucius laughed. "How easily you are shocked, Hermione! Yes, I did it, and I took his place within Voldemort's inner circle. Father was a bit over-ambitious. He fancied that he would make a better Dark Lord."   
  
"I suppose Voldemort was quite fond of you from then on."   
  
"He certainly liked me better than Father." Lucius smirked.   
  
"How did your mother react?"   
  
"Mother left me the Malfoy estate and departed for Spain with her lover. I hear he poisoned her later for infidelity," he said with amusement.   
  
"Of course, everything is more complicated than I have let on. Father suffered a tragic mishap, and it was made out that Mother's grief was so great that she could no longer stand the country she married Father in, allowing her to slip out of England without comment."   
  
"The Malfoy family image is flawless as always. Go on," she ordered, disgusted at the picture she was getting from Lucius and not sure how much of it was true. He _was_ skilled at dissembling; Hermione did not doubt that, and she was certain that he would have made an invaluable PR rep.   
  
He made a dismissive noise. "There is not much more to say. I acquired the post of Sr. Undersecretary to one of the Hogwarts governors – one of the older ones. He died when I was around thirty, and I got his job."   
  
"So what about your wife?" Hermione prompted hesitantly.   
  
He didn't explode again. "I held the title of 'most eligible bachelor in the country' for quite a few years," he reminisced, smiling nostalgically. It was uncanny how evil he could make a nostalgic smile look.   
  
"I expect you bedded half the young women in England," Hermione remarked tartly.   
  
His smile widened. "And not just the young women," he corrected. Hermione sniffed, which he took as a sign to continue.   
  
"Narcissa and I were introduced at a mutual friend's party one night when I was twenty-four and she nineteen," he recalled, sweeping a long hand through his gleaming blond hair, which was so out of place in the dingy cell. Hermione followed his hand's progress like one hypnotized.   
  
"I courted her for a year, married her, and then we had Draco the year after the wedding. I was twenty-six then. There is nothing else that you do not at least have an idea about," Malfoy finished.   
  
"You don't have much of a dramatic flair, do you, Lucius? I expected you to embellish to some degree," Hermione observed, tearing her eyes from his exquisite hand, which had probably never done any manual labo in his life. It was especially odd that his story had been so flat when his behavior otherwise had been decidedly colorful.   
  
"My dear Hermione, not all of us can steal the show quite as effectively as your good friend Potter. That little brat has quite a gift for the dramatic," Lucius teased, those white fingers now stroking lightly at his arm. It couldn't be termed scratching because they moved with his characteristic grace. Hermione absently thought it very funny that Lucius didn't scratch his itches; he stroked them.   
  
"I want to ask one last question," Hermione began reluctantly. "How many people would you estimate you have killed in your lifetime?"   
  
"That _is_ an interesting question," Lucius sighed. "I would say about a hundred," he murmured lovingly, examining his ivory, blue-veined hands. He looked up at her.   
  
"Well, I think that's enough for today," Hermione averred, turning her gaze away. "I'll be seeing you again next week, Lucius." Hermione took the quill and parchment and placed them inside her bag.   
  
"Not so much as a 'thank you for your time'?" Lucius looked highly amused. "You seem to have forgotten all your manners today, dear girl."   
  
"At least you're being polite, with all your en_dear_ments. 'Dear Hermione', 'dear girl,'" she shot back.   
  
"Today is the first day that we will have parted where I have not been Stunned or Petrified. I think that we ought to be able to say goodbye on civil terms, Hermione." He smiled coldly, but his eyes were included this time, which was rare.   
  
"You're right." She rose and extended her hand. The irony and humiliarion of Lucius trying to teach her manners was not lost on Hermione. "Goodbye, Lucius. Till next week."   
  
Those ghostlike eyes flickered with amusement at her formality. Lucius stood, but instead of taking her hand, he bowed very slightly.   
  
"They took my gloves," he murmured again smilingly, and not sounding at all apologetic.   
  
Hermione's face contorted briefly before she regained control and forced it into an indifferent expression. So. She was so far beneath him that he would not deign to touch her hand, and if he were following Japanese customs, the infinitesimal degree of his bow reinforced his belief that she was vastly his inferior.   
  
"Goodbye," Hermione repeated frostily, moving towards the door.   
  
"_Au revoir_," he called pleasantly in return.   
  
The door slammed loudly on her way out.   
  
Once outside, she said a perfunctory thank-you to the guard, who looked relieved that he hadn't had to subdue Lucius again and nodded in return. At first, Hermione was going to leave quickly, as her anger had not yet boiled down, but as she saw the guard locking Malfoy's cell with multiple spells, she recalled that she wanted to see Lucius's records.   
  
"Excuse me, Mr. . . .." Hermione trailed off uncertainly.   
  
"Seward, Miss." He indicated a plastic badge with his name engraved on it (John R. Seward), which Hermione had somehow missed before. She couldn't think how; she was noted for her keen observation. Azkaban and Lucius must be affecting her mind, she thought, and she shuddered.   
  
"Oh - Mr. Seward. I want to ask whether I have permission to access Malfoy's files. Having background on my subject would help greatly with my research, so could I . . .?"   
  
Seward considered her request for a moment, then said, "I think that since you're from the Ministry, it'll be okay. You'll have to sign out a copy up front, because you want to take it home, right?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Okay," he said, starting to walk. Hermione followed him.   
  
In the front room, the thin receptionist was dully flipping paper clips around.   
  
"Smith," grunted Seward. "The lady here's from the Ministry; Auror training with Moody, remember?"   
  
Smith's head snapped up to stare at Hermione. She displayed her visitor's badge from the Ministry as verification, and he nodded jerkily.   
  
"She wants access to Lucius Malfoy's file. The prisoner in cell 289."   
  
"All right then," said Smith, speaking for the first time in a voice as thin as his figure. He bent down and shuffled around, looking for a bunch of papers, which he placed on top of the counter. "Fill these out," he directed, giving Hermione a battered quill and inkpot.   
  
Hermione frowned as she bent over the papers. She hated paperwork, and this stack seemed to ask a lot of pointlessly suspicious questions, such as _Have you ever been tried for any criminal misdemeanors in the last five years?_ The next one stupidly asked _Have you ever been tried for any criminal offenses in your life?_   
  
Meanwhile, Smith pulled his wand out and pointed it towards a stack of file cabinets in the back.   
  
"_Accio_ file of Lucius Malfoy, cell 289!"   
  
A slim report zoomed out of a drawer and neatly into his hands.   
  
Hermione scrawled out an answer to the last question and pushed the stack of papers towards Smith, who didn't even look at them, but placed them inside a drawer under his desk.   
  
"Thank you," she said, taking the report from him and carefully stowing it in her bag.   
  
She bade the two an automatic farewell, and walked out without waiting for their responses, her mind plagued by thoughts of Lucius.   
  
Later, when Hermione was safely ensconced in her flat with a cup of hot tea, she opened Lucius's file and began to read.   
  
She discovered that he had not actually lied about anything, but he had glossed over certain aspects and certainly left out a lot of details. It also appeared that his estimate of a hundred murders was slightly imprecise.   
  
Disinclined though Hermione was to admit it, she was glad that Lucius had not told her the full details of his life in that cell. However, she would have thought that he'd have taken delight in seeing her squirm at the sordid parts.   
  
So she refused to be grateful.   
  
  
A/N: Hugs to everyone who's reviewed! Special shout-outs to Ale-Bloody- Roses and Mook: your reviews are helpful and so encouraging! I love constructive criticism and want to become a better writer, so you know the drill. ^_~   
  
Oh, and I read _Red Dragon_ (by the same author who wrote _The Silence of the Lambs_). Couldn't find _Silence_ at my stupid local library. Grr. Maybe next time.   
  
About _Red Dragon_: I thought it was a great book and ran out to rent the movie (didn't rent _Silence_ 'cause I'm leery of watching movies without reading the books first). I thought that it was good - had great performances. Liked Dolarhyde. Of course, that wasn't entirely unbiased - I blame Ralph Fiennes. ^_^   
  
And now to continue my quest to find _Silence_ . . . 


	4. Tell Me, Darling

IV. _Tell Me, Darling _

A/N: If you've been wondering why this is rated R, this is the chapter where you get your answer.  You have been warned.  And may you enjoy.  ^_^ 

During the next four Lucius-free days, Hermione got around two more feet of report written, which pleased her immensely, but she still hadn't even begun to choose her other two subjects.  Everyone else had at least started on his or her second person.

This bothered her, but she didn't want to focus on anyone else right now, not while Lucius kept haunting her thoughts.  Another psychotic fiend was more than she could handle right now.

This was reinforced by Moody's recent criticism during training.  

"Concentrate, Granger!" he had bellowed.  "I don't know what's on your mind all the time now, but you had better get straightened out!"

Hermione winced every time she thought of that.

Emma hadn't been much more helpful.  "You look really . . . preoccupied lately," she had told Hermione.

On Sunday, she appeared at Lucius's cell at four o'clock, a bit later than usual.  She brought Lucius's file back; she had finished with it.

Before Seward had opened the door, Hermione saw through the window that the faucet on the sink next to the toilet was running, though Lucius seemed to be doing nothing other than staring at the water.

She stilled Seward's hand, which had gone to his wand in order to unlock the door.

"What is he doing?" she asked.

Seward snorted.  "Sometimes he just lets the water run and watches it, to amuse himself, I guess.  The water supply is magicked here, so we don't try to stop him.  Don't blame him.  Some of the prisoners in here go mad of boredom, poor devils."

Hermione recalled reading somewhere that flowing water had a hypnotic effect.  Her parents had taken her to America when she was a little girl, and they had visited Yellowstone.  She still remembered the waterfalls there.

As soon as she stepped in, Lucius turned the tap off.  "Good afternoon, Hermione."

He crossed to the table and sat with the air of a child expecting expensive gifts on his birthday.

"Hello, Lucius.  How are you feeling today?" 

"I thought we'd left feelings behind," he sighed, making a wry face.

"Indulge me."

"I feel . . . resigned, because you are going to question me relentlessly no matter how I resist.  I feel mildly curious about what we are going to be covering today.  Depressed and frustrated because of a prolonged exposure to dementors and stay in Azkaban," he expounded, moving his hands about restlessly.  "Disgust at the presence of a Mudblood."

"You certainly describe your emotions thoroughly when I convince you to."  Hermione glared at him.

Lucius shrugged gracefully.

"I saw you watching the water.  Would you tell me what else you do during the day when I'm not here?" 

"I told you before that I read when Seward or some other fool is good enough to give me interesting material.  Otherwise, I lie or sit on my bed and think.  I walk around my cell frequently so I don't become completely sedentary.  There's not much else except for the water."  Lucius grinned absently.  "I have glorious, wet fun."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at the statement, which, when taken out of context, could have a rather perverted meaning. 

"You know," Lucius remarked thoughtfully, "this is fairly therapeutic.  Have you taken any classes in psychology, Hermione?"

"No," she said, puzzled as to why he was acting like a daydreaming schoolboy.  He was smiling dreamily out the window.  She temporarily forgot her anger.  Lucius had such variable moods; it was unsettling.

"It must have been very hard to adjust to living in Azkaban, Lucius," she ventured at length.  "What do you miss most about your normal life?"

 His gaze wandered around to her again.  "You ought to know better than to ask a formerly wealthy man what he misses most from his vast horde of treasures," he admonished mockingly.  

"You're still wealthy," Hermione pointed out.  "Just somewhat hampered from putting that wealth to any personally beneficial use."

"Mere technicalities," he said carelessly.

"Surely there are some things that you miss more than others." 

"My cane," he conceded.  "I feel . . . almost vulnerable without it."  

A crocodile smile graced his features again.  It suited his face, Hermione thought.

She secretly agreed that it was unusual to see him without it, as it had complemented his snobbish patrician look quite nicely, and it had had his wand concealed within.  However, it was her opinion that Lucius could never be vulnerable unless he was dead or unconscious.

"Then there are all the things everyone would miss in Azkaban," he continued.  "Books, good food, fine wine, proper clothing . . ."

Again Hermione privately dissented with him: only a rich bastard like Lucius would be thinking about fine wine in Azkaban.

"Freedom most of all, of course," he added, his fingers steepled before him.  "Very inconvenient, as you so cleverly pointed out, to have so much money and be able to use it only for certain . . . petty things."

With a faint feeling of triumph, Hermione noted that he _had_ been bribing the guards for hygienic/beauty supplies.

"I took a look at your file yesterday," Hermione revealed.  "Your wife – she wasn't a Death Eater, was she?"  

Hermione had not forgotten Lucius's insane display the first time she had asked prying questions about Narcissa, but she felt that this was significant.

"No."

"Why was that?"

"I was in the Dark Lord's service, as was her sister Bella, and Draco became one in his seventh year.  Narcissa supported the Dark Lord, but we saw no need to make it a family affair," he murmured.

"Did she not want to be one?"

"Narcissa was a flower plucked from the Garden of Eden.  She was fashioned too delicate for the Dark Lord's service.  It fell to me to protect her," Lucius said softly.

Though Hermione would never know how Lucius had come home late at nights from Dark Revels, how he stole into the manor quietly and headed for the bathroom to manually wash away the blood and death from his hands before going to lie with Narcissa in the bed they shared, she knew that Lucius was telling the truth and she marveled at his love for her.

"And what about -," Hermione faltered and glanced at the notes taken by her quill.  "What about Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Her question had not been specific – Hermione only wanted to hear what Lucius had to say about his sister-in-law.  

He seemed to understand, and he replied in a low voice, "Dear Bella . . . I suppose I loved her second only to Narcissa."

At this statement, Hermione drew her eyebrows together severely.  "You . . .?"

"Slept with her, yes."

"What?"  After his poetic declarations of love for Narcissa, Hermione could not believe that Lucius would betray his wife like that.  "Why?"

"Bella shared my taste for blood and pain, which were things that Narcissa could not give me and which Rodolphus could not bear to inflict upon Bellatrix.  I needed those two things; Narcissa understood."

"And Rodolphus?" she asked, her eyebrows still raised so high that they were hidden in her hair.

"Bella was like a void," he said.  "She was vast and empty and she devoured everything around her – no single man could have been enough for her.  Rodolphus understood that."

"Ah."  Hermione stared at her notes.

"How is your assignment going?" he inquired suddenly after a few moments of thick silence.

That was unexpected.  "Well enough," said Hermione, eyebrows raised, but not at the stratospheric level they'd been at previously.  "We've barely started – it lasts six months, I've told you."

"No, no.  I meant with your other subjects."

"How do you know that I'm supposed to study other people?"  Hermione demanded.

"Seward," he said simply.

For a while, there was silence.  Then Hermione spoke abruptly.  

"I've had brief meetings with the other two already," she lied.

"Seward told me that you haven't seen anyone else," Lucius contended.

"Why has he been telling you so much?" Hermione asked forcefully, ignoring his last comment.

"I asked him to clarify the situation for me," Lucius said.  "Surely I have a right to know exactly why you are seeing me?"

"I told you why."

"I wanted details."

"If you knew I hadn't seen anyone else, why did you ask how it was going with my other subjects?" Hermione snapped.

"To see if you've even chosen two other people yet.  Apparently not," Lucius said maddeningly.  "It's interesting that you chose to lie to me."

That riled Hermione.  The way he spoke – as if he were the one studying her!  It was not to be borne.

Just as she opened her mouth to answer rudely, he continued glibly, "Don't be offended.  It's actually quite flattering that you're so interested." 

Hermione glared at his smirk.  She didn't want to struggle for control anymore – not at the moment, anyway.  She was supposed to be steering their conversations, and he was supposed to give answers to her questions obediently.

Her formidable intellect had always guaranteed her some degree of authority before – especially with Harry and Ron – and she was used to the great degree of influence she had held with them, even if Harry had been their implicit leader.  Lucius was able to manipulate her so subtly and skillfully that she only realized it when it was too late.  

She hated that and was completely set against the idea of lying back and allowing him to do so.  Add the fact that he had insinuated she found him – what, extremely attractive or something?  He was a complete bastard.

Consequently, this latest exchange left her unable to converse further with Lucius without giving in to her base, puerile instincts to smack him around the face.

"That's it for today," she announced harshly, stuffing her quill and parchment into her bag. The wooden chair she had been sitting on made a loud scraping sound as she stood abruptly.

Lucius made no move to get up.  

"Touched a nerve, have we?" 

Hermione stormed out and indicated to Seward that he ought to go in to Vanish the furniture and lock the door.

When he was finished doing so, Hermione said, "If you still have that list of prisoners available for training interrogation, could you please bring it to me?  I haven't chosen my other two people yet – three are required."

"Sure."  Seward led her through the intricate passageways to the front room again, where he left her to go in the side room she had often seen him emerge from.  He soon came out with the list.

"Thank you."

"Will you be wanting to see them today?" 

"Yes, both."

Running her finger down the list, Hermione noticed that about fifteen more people were left.  Basically at random, she chose _Clifton, Chloris_ and _Dupin, Michael.  _

"Let's go see Michael first," she said to him.

"Okay, he's in cell 418 . . . follow me."

Dupin turned out to be a sadist notorious for his extravagant use of the Cruciatus Curse.  He was an independent criminal, with no purpose other than to cause people pain.  

All told, Hermione found him quite pathetic and excessively melodramatic.  He attempted to frighten her by acting like a maniac and grinning terribly with his teeth bared, but Hermione only thought that he was a mere shadow of Lucius at the art of intimidation.

She left after half an hour and prayed that she would not have to endure many more sessions with him.

Clifton was, thankfully, much more interesting.  Chloris reminded her of Bellatrix, actually: though not a Death Eater (most Death Eaters had been given the Kiss; she had been convicted of using the Killing Curse on a woman her husband had been having an affair with), she was aggressive and crafty.  With her masses of burnished copper hair and long-lashed hazel eyes, she had no doubt been beautiful once (like Bellatrix), but Azkaban had colored her skin sallow and drawn it tightly across her face, and it had shaded dark circles under those brilliant eyes.

Like Lucius, Chloris professed intense love for her spouse (who seemed to be an asshole named Robert, as far as Hermione was concerned. 

Hermione rather expected she'd be able to write a novel about Azkaban prisoners involved in romantic entanglements when her assignment was over.

Azkaban was a sad, scary place, and Hermione truly appreciated just then how appropriate it was for Auror training.

***

The next week wore by slowly, and Hermione could not get Lucius out of her mind.  Even the conversations she'd had with her new subjects were not fresh or interesting enough to drive him from her thoughts.  Her hatred for him, which had lain dormant for a while, flared up again.

It wasn't enough, she thought furiously, that he dominated their exchanges, but he had to dominate her mind as well?  She wanted to reduce him to a puddle of tearful, shuddering flesh, and these uncharacteristically violent urges he inspired in her only caused her to resent him even more.

This strange, unwilling obsession interfered with her state of mind so badly that Moody had really let loose on her that week, even remaining unsympathetic when she had lied that she was having family problems.

Her colleagues had been more compassionate, but Hermione was jealous that none of them were so severely affected by their dangerous subjects.  Supposedly everyone on the list was equally deviant and criminal.

Every time Lucius loomed up in her mind, forbidding and evil, she screamed silently at him to go away, that she would not lie back to let him domineer their discussions and that she hated him.  This frightening obsession lasted until Friday.

That night she had a nightmare.

Hermione dreamed that she was in a black dungeon somewhere, naked and bound to the wall by very painful handcuffs.  She was horribly cold.

Ominous footsteps echoed throughout the dungeon and grew louder as their owner drew closer.

It was Lucius.  He was wearing his _haute couture_ robes, and his flaxen hair was bound neatly in a black satin ribbon.  He even had his snake head cane.

"L-Lucius.  What are you doing?"  She could not keep her voice from trembling.

Lucius towered in front of her and rapped his cane smartly in the palm of his other hand.

"I want you to relax and obey me," he said softly, his rapacious eyes boring into her.  "If you bear in mind that I am in control, you will not suffer.  It should be painless."

He left unsaid what would happen if she did not do as he said.

Without warning, he struck her fiercely with his cane.  Hermione cried out and a scarlet welt rose on her skin as if it had been hiding underneath all that time and Lucius had called it to the surface, bringing with it a resonant pain. 

"You are fighting me," Lucius whispered, caressing his cane with a monstrously tender grace.  "I have told you not to.  I shall make you a proposition, dear Hermione: if you count my strokes up to twenty, I will stop."

"No!" she yelled up at him.  "I won't give in; I won't play by your sick, twisted rules!"

He smiled gently at her, his eyes glittering.  "Remember that the pain will stop when you acknowledge that I am in control."

"Shut up, you fucking bastard!"  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she dimly registered that she _never_ used that word, and that she really hated Lucius.

"You are screaming nicely now - I shiver with anticipation to think how you may shriek later . . .."  

Hermione was sure she had never seen him smile more charmingly.

Lucius began raining blows mercilessly on her, and she screamed so hard that her throat grew hoarse quickly, but that didn't stop her from screaming.  He was fucking _strong_, and that bloody cane was so heavy.  The exposed curving fangs of the snakehead didn't help.

He allowed a short pause after each strike, in order to give her an opportunity to start counting.  His manner was almost _lazy_; his demonic eyes were the only thing that betrayed his merely slightly amused expression.  Hermione was sure that she'd rather die than give in.

Red welts and hideous bruises appeared all over her body, and she was sure that some of her ribs were fractured.  Hermione drew her knees up to protect her torso, her arms being restrained and wholly vulnerable, but he struck her knees and it goddamn-oh-holy-shit-it-hurt.  

_Crucio_ couldn't hurt much worse than this, Hermione was sure, her wrists were rubbed raw, and there was blood everywhere.  Her muscles were strained to the point of snapping, from her tortured writhing on the hard ground.

She alternated between screaming like there was no tomorrow and biting her tongue.  Soon it was bleeding copiously and it felt as though it were about to sever completely.

It hurt so much that she was wondering when she would faint from the pain; she even hoped for it.  Once blackness overtook her, but she opened her eyes again very soon, too soon, and saw Lucius pointing his wand at her.  Apparently he had revived her, and he, smirking, replaced his wand in his cane.

The blows began anew. 

Lucius murmured something that Hermione could not hear over her screams, but she'd had enough, and she gasped through a mouthful of blood, "One!"

Delight lit his face, and he began hitting with renewed vigor, making it more difficult for her to count.  She half expected that he would up the number just because he was an absolute sadist.

At twenty, Hermione woke at once.  

Hurriedly, she threw her arms over the covers, expecting to see fearful bruises and cuts all over them.  They were unmarked, but she would have sworn that she felt stinging, broken, and numb all over.  She passed her hands over her face and neck in a feeble attempt to still her quickened breathing.

The clock at her bedside read 8:22.  It being Saturday, Hermione had a choice of going to Azkaban to carry on with her research, or taking a break.

That ghastly nightmare still fresh in her mind, anyone would have thought that Hermione would have chosen to stay at home.  Hermione herself realized that the nightmare was a twisted metaphor for her dealings with Lucius.  That didn't change her resolve to go and see Lucius immediately.

As Harry and Ron would have told you in an instant, you'd have to all but kill Hermione Granger to tear her away from her work, especially a case as grueling and fascinating (dangerous and scary, call it whatever you like, but it was still intriguing) as that of Lucius Malfoy.  Thus, no explanation is needed for why Hermione ate breakfast and washed up as quickly as she could before going to see Lucius.

In Azkaban, Seward raised an eyebrow at seeing Hermione so early, but wordlessly accompanied her to cell 289.

"Hermione!" Lucius cried, yawning ostentatiously.  "It's quite flattering that you're so eager to see me, but couldn't you have waited until I was properly awake?"

He had been standing at the chipped sink, evidently in the middle of washing his face, for glistening droplets lingered on his skin.  The resulting glowing effect made his pale face look quite ethereal.  Watery morning light filtering in from the tiny barred window only served to enhance this effect.

"Good morning, Lucius," Hermione said neutrally, watching him with wary eyes. 

If she had expected him to start displaying signs of the extreme violence he had shown in her dream, she was disappointed.  He merely crossed the room to sit at the table.  

"Do you plan to be here long?" 

"Possibly."

"Would you summon Seward for me?"  

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"I want to tell him to bring breakfast later.  It's served at nine o'clock, but I don't want to eat while talking to you."

Somewhere in the back of her mind Hermione wondered whether that was some pureblood supremacist doctrine he was following, but she said, "I'll tell him for you."

Lucius said "Thank you" haughtily as she crossed the room to tell Seward.

"Now then," said Lucius as she sat down again, "I assume you've come here early because you've thought of something of grave importance that you must ask me?"

"No, not exactly," she said hesitantly.  In the excitement of the morning, she hadn't thought about what to tell him.  Certainly not that she had dreamed of him.

"Then what?" he asked, narrowing his steel-gray eyes.

"I'd like to talk with you.  About anything, really.  You can decide."  

Moody had told them that for these interviews, they were allowed to use Veritaserum or any other suitable spell on their subjects (at their discretion) to ensure they received accurate, truthful answers.  Hermione had briefly considered using such methods, but in the end she had decided that she wanted to hear Lucius's responses uninfluenced by any magic.  Personally, she had doubted that Lucius would lie to her, and she had been right so far, it seemed.

At her words, Lucius had raised an eyebrow elegantly.  He seemed to do everything elegantly.  Hermione thought it must be an aristocratic thing.

"Since you've been learning all about me," he drawled, "why don't you give me your own autobiography now?"

Hermione had expected something like this, and she did not object.  If that surprised Lucius, he hid it very well.

After she gave her own life story in as terse a fashion as Lucius had, he began asking her various probing questions, many of which made her uncomfortable, but which she answered nevertheless.

All of his questions accurately hit on a topic which Hermione could give a long, interesting, and revealing answer to – meaning all were questions she'd rather not have answered, given a choice.  Privately, she thought to herself that Lucius would probably have made a better interrogator than she was.  Also, she thought that Lucius must have been tremendously pleased – she yielded to his questions as docilely as a pliant reed before a breeze – though of course he showed no such pleasure.

In between the lines of his acutely inquisitive questions, Hermione could read an odd sort of hunger.  It read like this:

I want your first love.  I want the hollow at the base of your neck where Ronald kissed you, and you told him that you could never be.  I want Harry's anger.  I want Parvati's ravishing ebony locks.  I want your copy of _Hogwarts: A History_.  I want Lavender's perfect skin.  I want the tears that sprung to your eyes when Professor Snape said he saw no difference.  I want the stormy clouds that serenaded you when Grandma died.  He wanted the world, and she gave it to him.

Her consuming obsession ended that day.

A/N: Thanks again to all who have reviewed!  I'd just like to add that I have a major problem sticking with multi-chaptered stories, so I keep mine short.  Meaning that this will be coming to an end next chapter.  Keep the love coming!  ^_^

Special mention of thanks to Raven, who was good enough to draw a lovely illustration of my story.  Her webpage can be found at this url: beepworld.de/members5/thornbird.   


	5. Melting Nowhere

V. Melting Nowhere

Although it was true that her obsession was gone, that did not mean that Hermione had lost interest in Lucius.  On the contrary, she was just as fascinated with him as she had ever been, but he did not float through her mind mockingly anymore, allowing her to concentrate on her training, and Clifton and Dupin.  

Still, Clifton and Dupin did not intrigue her anywhere nearly as much as Lucius did, so she saw them only about two more times each, intending to simply write up a load of rubbish for their section of her report.  It was a mark of just how absorbing she found Lucius, that she would risk the integrity of her report for him.

They fell into a weekly routine, Hermione and Lucius: she visited him on Sunday.  Only and always Sunday.

You see, Saturday and Monday were devoted to her beloved report, which was fast becoming a novel in its own right.  

Harry and Ron noticed this.

"Are you in love?" Ron demanded.  "Is he so utterly charismatic and captivating that you can't live two minutes without him?"

"It's probably a Krum-Lockhart hybrid who can quote Shakespeare while curling his hair on a Firebolt."  

"As impressed as I am by Ron's improved vocabulary, both of you still have a lot of maturing to do."  Hermione poked Harry, who was sniggering uncontrollably.  

"And neither Viktor nor Lockhart could quote Shakespeare."  This with a dignified lift of her chin.

"Yeah, well, maybe your tastes have improved over the years."

The resulting smack and howl of pain from Ron placated Hermione somewhat, and she grinned. 

That did not change the fact that Harry and Ron were, as a matter of fact, somewhat close.  

Hermione was actually more like a butterfly caught in a whirlpool.

Against all expectations, Hermione found that confiding in Lucius not only kept the inexplicable obsession at bay, but also comforted her somewhat.  He was always caustic, always heavily prejudiced, and nearly always frustrating, but through the insults and provoking remarks were sometimes incredibly sensitive insights, which reminded Hermione of his enigmatic love for the Black sisters Narcissa and Bellatrix.

She began telling him stories from her childhood that she'd never shared with anyone else, describing things like her resentment at Harry and Ron from their third year in great detail.  

"Did you hate them?"

"No!  I was angry with them – with their stupidity, their –"

"Their pointed preference for each other over you," he said smoothly.

"Yes," she sighed after a beat.  "It's always been that way.  Even now."  A brief pang fluttered in her heart.

"Haven't you always thought that they did not truly appreciate you?"

"I . . ."

"Your swift, precise intellect; your constant, if misguided loyalty; your bright, girlish smiles – do not tell me that they never took these for granted."  His eyes were sharp and beady, hawk-like in their intensity.

She could only smile wistfully.  "It isn't their fault.  They are –," but what they were she did not say; she faltered under his gaze.  She tilted her head in a sweetly melancholy gesture that seemed to say, "I love them all the same."

To this Lucius gave a short, harsh laugh very unlike himself.  

He was rarely consoling, but Hermione felt a strange sort of relief at sharing these bitter feelings with Lucius.  

She even told him about the feelings of inadequacy she'd harbored which had made her such an obnoxious know-it-all at school; they were the feelings that everyone had suspected were there but had never found.  When she gained Moody's disapproval, Lucius was the first to know.

 A report she'd read somewhere proved that releasing one's feelings through some way – a diary or whatnot – was stress-relieving, and as Lucius was never going to get out of Azkaban, there was no chance that a third party would ever know what passed between them.  Lucius was her diary.  Hermione smiled self-deprecatingly at that thought.

On the other hand, Lucius reciprocated by telling her anecdotes from his own childhood, most of which she could tell were calculated to prove to her the superiority of pureblood society, but she found them very interesting all the same.  He told her of his dove-gray stallion that he had named Thanatos; of the morning he'd spent coaxing poison out of his pet Ashwinder to kill his father's favorite hound when he'd refused to buy Lucius a pet dragon.   He'd had his eye on a Swedish Short-Snout after seeing a beautiful specimen of one of his father's associates – and he'd always loved dragons – hence the name of his only son.  

And then, as he said, "I was always a willful child."

"I can imagine."

After a thoughtful silence: "Thanatos.  What does that mean?"

"Thanatos is the name of the Greek god of death."

"What would you have named the dragon?"

"Eris."

That was the goddess of strife and discord; this Hermione knew.  Easily she could picture Lucius astride a dragon glittering silver-blue in the moonlight, the pair of them flying above ruined villages, streams of fire pouring from the dragon's mouth.  It was a medieval tableau of chaos and terror.  Now she looked at him and saw something infinitely more frightening: he did not need the dragon.

***

He told her of the soirees his parents had held at their luxurious mansion; of the nights that silk, velvet, taffeta, and satin confections had waltzed about in their grand ballroom; of the clouds of perfume that floated around the gilt halls; and of the tantalizing mountains of chocolate and spun sugar and treacle that sat complacently on the ebony tables.

"They are Malfoy family tradition; these extravagant balls."  Hermione thought that she detected a note of weariness behind the pride of the statement.

"Did you enjoy them?"

"When I was a child, yes."

"Not anymore?"

"Everything changes."

And she knew that then he wasn't talking only of the Malfoy parties.  

Such talks entranced Hermione for hours on end and further helped her realize just what an intricate character Lucius was.

No matter what else he told her though, he never answered when she asked where he had gotten the knife of their first meeting.  He would simply smile, and those smiles were the only ones where he displayed his teeth.  She noticed that he had teeth that would have made her parents proud, and that his canines were extremely well developed.  So she stopped asking, because his toothy smiles disconcerted her, and Seward told her they hadn't figured it out either.  Hermione reluctantly let it pass as something she would never know the answer to.

Once Hermione missed a meeting.  That Sunday, Harry and Ron had made her an enticing invitation to attend a famous Wizarding play.  Hermione accepted their invitation because she found it moving that they would go to a theatrical production (she knew it really wasn't their thing), she had genuinely wanted to see that play for a long time, and because she felt guilty at being absent from them for so long.

She did enjoy herself that day, as they spent the morning and afternoon browsing in Diagon Alley, talking leisurely and catching up on one another.  Though Hermione had mentioned her study of Lucius to Harry and Ron, it was brought up only once during the course of the day, and none of them dwelt on it, for which Hermione was grateful.  If they suspected something was amiss with that certain topic, Hermione was unaware of it.  The evening was devoted to the play, which Hermione thoroughly delighted in.

When she saw Lucius the next Sunday, he said lightly, "Where were you last week?  I almost missed you."

His tone was dry, but it still stunned Hermione.  To even let those words leave his lips must have taken a great effort on Lucius's behalf.

"Oh, well," she smiled, "that's very sweet of you, Lucius.  But I thought that _Les Liaisons des Lenoirs _would keep you occupied for quite a while."  She had begun lending him books every week.

"It was far too dull."

"It's very long and complex.  And aren't the Lenoirs related to you?"

"It's long and complex and _dull, _not to mention poorly written," he said pointedly.  "And the closest relation we have to that family is a fifth cousin by marriage on Narcissa's side."

"Same thing."  Hermione grinned.

Lucius snorted.  "There are more worthwhile things to do than read that rubbish."

And Hermione was touched, and she had thought that to be affected by Lucius like that was impossible.  Consequently, she went home that night and carefully analyzed her feelings for Lucius.

There was no denying that Lucius was intelligent and highly complex, and in light of his love for Narcissa and Bellatrix, which impressed her in spite of herself, Hermione could not bring herself to hate Lucius anymore.  It was harder to loathe someone once they gained layers with acquaintance and were no longer a one-dimensional villain.  He continued to provoke and scorn her, but she took it all in stride.  Though she didn't like it, Hermione accepted now that his pureblood supremacy mentality could not be changed.

If he had been anyone but Lucius, Hermione would have pitied him – she had a very compassionate heart, as anyone who knew about S.P.E.W. could testify.  Lucius was far too lofty for commiseration, however, and Hermione could no more feel sorry for him than abhor him.

Was it conceivable, Hermione wondered, that her initial, disquieting obsession had evolved into something more benevolent, like infatuation?  Since her feelings in general were not negative towards him, and she was reputed, however erroneously, for being a head over heart type over person, she examined this theory particularly closely.  Certainly he was handsome, and cultured, and besides, infatuation was defined as a foolish, unreasoning, or extravagant passion or attraction.  In this case, the words "foolish" and "unreasoning" would be especially applicable.

As unreasoning or foolish as any of Hermione's past crushes had been, though, she believed she could never feel anything of the type for someone who thought she was so exceedingly beneath him.  This was completely different from Lockhart, Viktor, or Ron.  

All in all, Hermione could not articulate her feelings toward Lucius.  Hermione not being able to articulate anything was very rare indeed.

This discomfited her slightly, but she managed to suppress that part of her mind and carry on normally.  Her report was now covering ten scrolls of parchment and growing.

On his birthday, Hermione brought him a box of Honeydukes chocolates.

"And what are these for?" he inquired, eyebrow raised.

"They're for you," Hermione said, trying to sound cheerful.  "Happy birthday."

"You remembered."

"Are you going to take them?"  Hermione pushed the box across the table.  "Or is it some pureblood dogma that you can't accept anything from a Muggle-born?"  Her tone was light, but her eyes challenged him.

Something tautened in his face, but he reached for the box.  "Why did you buy me chocolates?"  He sounded incredulous.

"I hear the food here is terrible – and for the dementors," Hermione said, smiling tentatively at him.  She was speaking the truth; when she stayed too long she began to feel the effects of depression herself.

"Ah.  Well."  Lucius paused and looked at her.  "That's very _Gryffindor _of you."

He pulled the box closer towards himself and Hermione smiled at the Azkaban stamp of inspection and approval on its lid.  Lucius could never thank her the normal way, and she understood.

***

After nearly six months, Hermione was no closer to understanding him than she had been at the beginning.  She _knew_ a lot more about him, but that was far different from understanding him.  She did not understand him, but she could not tear herself away from him.  It was like coveting the stars.

Something else which nagged (for lack of a better word) at Hermione was that she never saw Lucius outside of his cell, or at night.  She desired a change in setting.  If she interviewed him at night, however, she guessed that it might be more than her nerves could handle.  Somehow the night was Lucius's territory, and she did not want to give him any more advantage during their talks than he already had.  Spartan and so very unfitting for Lucius, Hermione tired of his cell.  Occasionally, she would dream of standing with him on the deck of a ship, with nothing but ocean as gray as his eyes surrounding them; or drinking port with him on a balcony overlooking the Eiffel tower.  

"I want to walk into the palace of winds with you," Hermione once wrote unconsciously in a letter to Neville (whom she kept in touch with mostly through written correspondence – their schedules had the misfortune of rarely coinciding), as she was describing her interviews with Lucius.  When she read over her letter, Hermione furrowed her brow and removed the offending sentence with a stern jab of her wand.  Walk into the palace of winds with him, indeed.  

Her report was much less poetic.  It was filled with many technical and intimidating terms, complicated patterns she had "discovered" in Lucius's behavior, and convoluted discourses on his psyche.  If one had only asked Hermione whether she understood Lucius, however, it is not improbable that she would have collapsed in tears and admitted that her writings of him were vastly nothing.

   
When the end of half a year approached, Hermione came to tell Lucius.

"It's the end of our research stint.  I won't stop visiting you altogether, but my visits will be much less frequent."

"It has been six months already," Lucius reflected.  "Why won't you stop visiting me?"

"Well, you know – I do what I can to relieve your boredom.  There are some interesting books that I haven't gotten around to finding for you, and I know you'll like them . . .."  A weak smile creased her features, trying to justify her illogical answer.

"If you spend any more time in Azkaban studying me, you'll probably rot here," he said mildly, his eyes closed to the extent that she could only see a faint gray glitter under his eyelashes.

There was a long silence.

Then he asked her a question on some trivial topic, which she eagerly seized onto, and they began to talk of random, insignificant things.  

Once they had really run out of things to say and an awkward silence had again settled over the room, Hermione rose and said haltingly, "I suppose I should go, then.  I – I might be able to come and see you tomorrow."

Lucius rose and gave her a diminutive bow, as he had done one time before.  "Goodbye, Hermione," he said politely.

Hermione moved around the table to get to the door, and his impassive eyes followed her.  Inexplicably, Hermione could not bear to say goodbye to him like this, so coldly and formally, so she flew over to him and threw her arms around his neck.

She kissed him.

Slowly, his arms came to rest around her as well, but they held her as gently as though she were woven out of moonbeams and starlight.

She would not have been surprised if he threw her away from him roughly, but he startled her by kissing her back.  Or at least she thought he was kissing her back: it was so gentle that it might only have been that he was allowing his mouth to relax as she kissed him.  Perhaps his passiveness echoed Hermione's kiss back to herself. 

It felt like she was falling into a pit, this empty kiss which Hermione pursued with bitterly red lips and wild eyes and convulsing heart.  If she had said she did not want to keep falling, she would have been lying.

When Hermione finally broke away from Lucius, his lips were slightly parted, and he was breathing just a little harder than usual.  His pale face was suffused with the faintest glow, but other than that, he was immaculate.  Hermione could only imagine what she looked like.

She waited for him to speak.  Lucius, who would not even deign to touch her with his hands when he hadn't his gloves, would surely be outraged that she had dared to kiss him – yet why hadn't he pushed her away?

(_I want to walk into the palace of winds with you._)

He merely looked at her, his expression completely blank.  His gray eyes bored into her.

Hermione had never been able to win staring contests against him.  She fled.

***

Hermione was a woman of her word.  She broke it once, by never returning to Azkaban.  It disturbed her more than she would have liked to think.

No.  Hermione told herself she did not love Lucius because he certainly had not loved her.

She cried herself to sleep countless nights afterward and only the prisoner of cell 289 with the colorless eyes knew why.

A/N: Letting go of this one is rather sad, but finishing it has also given me a lovely sense of completion and fulfillment.  I really ought to write more multi-chaptered Harry Potter fics (don't worry, I won't inflict all of them on the general public.)

The line "I want to walk into the palace of winds with you," is paraphrased from the film _The English Patient_.    

As always, constructive criticism and praise are ardently hoped for, and will be read and reread.  A final thank-you goes out to all those who have expressed interest in "The Night Dances."  Your kind words have often left me singing (or wishing I could sing).  Finally, I like to think that I've gotten at least one more person to support the LM/HG pairing.  Again, I'd appreciate input on the ending.  ^_^

Here is Plath's "The Night Dances":

A smile fell in the grass.

Irretrievable!

And how will your night dances

Lose themselves.  In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals-

Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely

Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass

Smells of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.

Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself-

Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets

Have such a space to cross.

Such coldness, forgetfulness.

So your gestures flake off-

Warm and human, then their pink light

Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven

Why am I given

These lamps, these planets

Failing like blessings, like flakes

Six-sided, white

On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting

Nowhere.


End file.
